A few hours later, Al pushes through the door, a paper bag dangling from one hand, a bottle of orange cream soda clutched in the other. “It’s a poor excuse for an apology, but I suck at apologies.” She presses both into my hands, eyes dropping to the floor, shame painting her face.
The scent hits first—greasy, glorious burgers and fries—and my stomach growls in betrayal. I’d skipped breakfast when Martha offered, too wary of how my stomach might rebel. Now, at three in the afternoon, hunger claws at me.
“I’m a rotten person,” Al murmurs, head bowed.
“No, but you’re a terrible wing-woman.” I tear into the foil, the first bite pulling a moan from my throat. Pickles, cheese, ketchup—sharp, sweet, tangy—meld into the juicy patty, the bun warm and toasted. Fries follow, crisp and golde
